North Of Wyoming

It was our banter and retort:
I’d email to you,‘Whyoming?’
‘Oming indeed,’ you replied.

Now, I slug syllables
and the wind stirs ashes in the western sky
empty of you, your grin.
How dull this stuff is
without the roast of your sly reply!

So, what’s the mailto of that narrow
dirt room you lie in?

Of all I wanted to come home to
when I came back from the world,
you were the one, you were the crux,
my waggish Who-oming sister,
who reduced my poems with lively smirks.
Sister, where were you, when I came home.
I say to sagebrush and rock ‘Why.’
but hear no ‘Oming,’
echo or mockery.
The ash twilight is dull.

So, what’s the URL for hereafter.gon?

I want to tell you, if your Jesus
will lift you from the comfort
of your gravel bed,
the wit of our joke has gone wrong.

I fancy your rejoinder,
so certainly you, I hear you say:
“Pun’s done.”

Paige . . . . This is THE Paige, right? Early 70s, continental divide, building fence, A horse named Mr. Dillon who taught you all about the lie of Mr. Ed and Roy’s horse Trigger. You’re that Paige, right?

Anyway. When that Paige says she likes something a lot, it is high praise. Thanks.